Sixty Frames Per Second
by Djamilla M
Summary: Life changes as fast as it happens. For them, the crash and burn was inevitable, the downward spiral unavoidable. But both knew you always had one shot left to hit the Stop button... [SF]
1. Opening Night

Disclaimer: Sadly, I lost the poker game. Including all rights to Cowboy Bebop. Darn.  
A/N: Well, I guess this is my first time writing a multi-chapter story. It could be because I'm not a real stickler. :) But I'll try to finish it, I promise. Cross my heart and hope to... er... live.

**Sixty Frames Per Second  
****Prologue: Opening Night**

Faye had almost passed him by the first time; he blended so well against the backdrop of glitter and glam that her gaze had rolled right over him… and arrowed straight back once she'd processed the fleeting image of moss green and brown. And then she'd had no doubt it was him.

He had that certain flair she'd always lacked for fitting in, and even with his mussed hair and tangled suit, he seemed at home behind the blackjack table, dealing cards left and right, flashing the occasional smile at a patron. He'd changed, filled out more, but there was no mistaking the familiar lines of his figure, the tall form. And that smile.

Dammit, she remembered that smile. Hot and sly and positively predatory.

It was, she mused, one of the things that had always attracted her to him, in the second before he'd looked up, and their eyes had met.

Panic swelled, immediate and unsettling.

It was all too much like a fairytale gone insane. Once upon a time in a casino.

She couldn't really remember when she'd taken the first step, but she knew when she'd taken the second, and then the third, and then she lost count as she sprinted for the door, heart beating a violent tattoo against her ribcage. When she'd tripped, staggered, fear wobbled through her veins stead of blood. And then she'd picked herself up and ran again, out through the gold-lined double doors and into the shimmering night.

She ran, blindly, while behind her, Spike did the only thing he could: he vaulted over the table, and ran after her.

Dammit. She hated fairytales.

* * *

"_Jet-person's mad… Did Faye-Faye make him mad?"_

"_Not really. Leave me alone, Ed."_

"_Is Faye-Faye mad, too?"_

"_No. It's not that."_

"_Why did Spike-person leave?"_

"… _Exactly."_

* * *

Faye.

When Spike Spiegel burst into the autumn night, the fresh air he gulped in went straight to his lungs and made him dizzy, disoriented, for the few precious minutes it took for the thought to register. _Faye. _The world spun on its axis as he processed the last few seconds, as he bent over and panted, propping his hands on his knees for support.

_Faye._

He hadn't expected her to be there. In truth, he hadn't expected to see her ever again. But those unmistakable green eyes… He swore into the crisp night air, made a mental note not to drink ever again; as it was, the alcohol was blocking both his brain and motor functions when he needed it the least. He tried to think, looked up and saw nothing but the dimming rays of sunset in the distant lines of the city.

It was already too dark to see properly, even by the garish glow of neon lights painted above his head. He squinted, trying to ignore the hammering in his head, his heart.

_I need to find Faye. I need to see Faye. _If not for a previous memory… then for a new one, he told himself.

He pricked up when he heard the sudden stumble, the curse and the clack of heels, and saw the familiar form running awkwardly across the parking lot, lit by the light of one malfunctioning street lamp. He darted after it, felt excitement dull fatigue, surprise, and alcohol, made his failing muscles work together in a frantic attempt to run.

"Faye, wait!"

There was no answer now, not even the staccato footsteps. He stopped, gasping for breath, and brushed the sweat from his forehead. He tried to listen over the pound, the throb of a starting headache stultified by fading adrenaline, and felt defeated, anxious. Faye was gone.

Then the rumble of a starting motor cut through the thick air, the belch of smoke and oil. His eyes traveled towards the sound, upward… and met Faye's.

Desperate, stormy green. She was hovering over him, staring, pale and wan, as if trying to prove something to herself. She lingered on his face, touched the windshield for one breathless, desperate second, before she gunned the engine, flicked the throttle wide, and was gone. Left him in a cloud of swirling dust and smoke.

Spike looked around, frantically. The Swordfish was a few lots away… he could make it. As he ran in the direction of his ship, he chanced another glance at the sky. The Redtail was almost a speck now, heading west. He marked the direction and looked back, concentrating on running as fast as his legs could take him without tearing a muscle.

He wasn't about to leave Faye Valentine alone. Not just yet.

"_There was a woman… she's gone now."_

* * *

Faye was taking the speed meter to new heights, her stiletto heel jamming the accelerator down to the floor so hard that it lay almost parallel to the ground. Frustrated, she tore the chiffon wrap from her shoulders and pushed sweaty tendrils of hair from her neck. She felt almost giddy with exertion, the churning feeling in her stomach reminding her that it had all been too true.

Spike had been there.

The Redtail dipped, dangerously, as her vision wavered.

Spike died, she reminded herself, as calmly as she could. Spike died, three years ago. Jet had said it himself. Jet had gone to the hospital and identified the remains. She hadn't wanted to. Couldn't. She'd locked herself in her room until Jet went on without her, nearly hoarse from shouting at her through the door.

There had been an obituary in the newspaper the next morning.

How could it be?

_How could he be back?_

No. It was a dream. Spike couldn't be alive.

He's dead.

She felt the nausea grow when she landed, taste the bitterness of the bile that hit her throat. As soon as she stumbled through the threshold of her own apartment, she vomited. It was only hours later that she finally got into bed, her head spinning and her eyes wet. And, for the first time in years, Faye Valentine cried herself to sleep.

_What was it about his smile? Oh, yes. She'd never, ever seen anything like it._

No. Fairytales were almost too sickeningly perfect.

* * *

tbc 


	2. Jet

**Disclaimer: **This time it was strip poker. I lost again.  
**A/N: **Yes, swunshine, I _do_ speak Tagalog. But I don't really know enough of it to write something in Tagalog. That's another matter entirely. :) I know how to converse, since I talk with my family in Tagalog all the time. I rarely use English with them. But writing something in it... well, that's something I haven't tried. And even if I did, expect grammar mistakes at an average of two per line. Hope that answered your question! And, well, 'Instead' was a one-shot. I had no plans of continuing it anyway. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed, so far.

**Sixty Frames Per Second  
1: Black**

A beep rang out in the silence of his minuscule, grimy apartment, startling Spike Spiegel from a fitful doze. When he opened his eyes, the sunlight streaming through the thin curtains met him face-on. And it was painful. He rolled, instinctively, to avoid the blinding rays of sun, and hit the floor with a thud that would have shamed a skydiver with a malfunctioning parachute. _That_ was also painful.

"Fuck."

The wee hours of the morning obviously weren't his best. Spike groaned and rolled onto his stomach, his head lolling lethargically onto a folded arm, his left arm stretched out on the cold, hardwood floor. He'd almost managed to fall asleep when his pager beeped again.

Cursing, he reached a hand up and over the sofa edge, searching, and, dipping a hand into the crack between the ratty afghan covers, brought out the still-beeping machine. An eye opened to read the number.

It took a few moments to register, and when it did, both eyes snapped open, blinking in watery irritation as the sunlight assaulted his nerves once more. He pushed himself up, burying his face in his hands as he hunched over, still trying to clear his thoughts.

When he looked up, his eyes lighted on the mud-caked shoes by the door, and the discarded casino uniform that lay crumpled next to them.

"Shit," he whispered, muffled through his cupped hands.

And it all came flooding back.

* * *

Faye had not fared much better in the way of a welcome-back-to-the-living-world greeting. She'd woken up irate, moody, and unable to open her eyes, thanks to the dried mascara gluing her eyelashes together. Add to that the way Ed was bouncing on her knees, yelling for pancakes, and she would've been tempted to commit suicide on the spot.

If she hadn't felt so damned exhausted, she thought later, staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror and gingerly pinching the bags under her eyes (dried mascara cleaned and gone); she might've just done it. Put the pillow over her head and strangled herself.

"Faye-Faye?" A head of wild, red hair poked around the bathroom doorframe. "The pancakes are burning."

Faye sighed. "Thanks, Ed."

She followed the bobbing, gangly frame of Edward as the barely-turned-teenager loped down the hall, both immersed in their separate thoughts, with the redhead humming something tuneless and happy.

Ed didn't change much. Hadn't changed much. Even when she'd turned up on Faye's doorstep a year earlier, soaking wet and chilled to the bone, with Ein hidden under the tatty coat, protected from the rain, she didn't seem all that different from the Ed Faye had known. A bit taller, a bit gawkier, and a bit wiser for all her childishness, maybe, but not so different that it wasn't Ed anymore. A genius hacker with a knack for trouble and the social skills of a kindergartener. A part of the Bebop crew.

Faye snagged the phone on the way past.

The first time she tried his number, the answering machine came on. She didn't bother leaving a message, switching the phone off and turning the pancakes in the skillet before they turned any darker. Then she tried again. But before she'd dialed the last number, she paused, and then slammed the phone down hard on the counter.

Hard enough to crack the casing. She rested a cool palm against the burning skin of her forehead. She needed to relax. For just _one_ second, if she could just…

"What's Faye-Faye doing?"

The brunette tilted her head upward to meet Ed's inquiring gaze, and as the kid dangled from the ceiling rafters, opted for vague and turned her attention back to the slightly burned pancakes.

"I'm calling a friend."

If you could call that stupid old man a friend, Faye thought bitterly. If Spike _had_ been in the mortuary, cold, dead, and rotting, he wouldn't have been there last night. A little thin, a little underfed, perhaps, but alive, contrary to what Jet had told her. Which could only mean one thing.

The idiot had lied.

It was either that, or Spike had just skipped out on an appointment with the devil. Although she wasn't willing to put it past him…

"Is something wrong, Faye-Faye?"

Faye sighed, broken out of her momentary reverie. At moments like this, she wished she was a better liar. It had always been Spike with the quick tongue, and she'd always been the one with the quick guns. The thought made her already simmering temper boil dangerously close to exploding, so she pushed it away quickly.

"No. Nothing's wrong." She was getting annoyed. The pancakes had turned a shade darker than they ought to, and she hurriedly swept them off the pan and onto a plate before they got worse. "I was just calling Jet-person, Ed."

Ed gazed at her curiously. "Then why is Faye-Faye blushing? Does she have a fever?"

"… Something like that."

* * *

Spike found Jet in Café 80's, a small coffee shop tucked away on a little side street, just off Boulevard 23. Cafes. The city was quite literally full of them.

When he walked in, the older man was there already, scanning the side menus with a frown that signaled he was mildly pissed and working toward spitting mad. It was hard to tell in the dim lighting, but with something like this, it was almost certain that Jet _would_ be angry. Spike stubbed out his cigarette in the nearest ashtray, slid his hands into his jacket pockets, and sidled into the booth across from him.

Jet barely looked up. "Spike."

"Jet." Spike grinned casually, reaching over to snag a menu from under the bald man's arm. "Quit smoking, I see."

The ex-bounty hunter patted his breast pocket. "Not really. Old habits die hard."

"So do old men."

"I'm not old. Just not as young as I used to be." The older man settled back in his seat, his eyes calculating. "Last time I saw you, you were bandaged up pretty bad. Couple of broken teeth, and I'd seen better noses on snowmen. But… here you are." Jet barked out a laugh and patted his pockets for a lighter, never taking his gaze from Spike's. "And _you're_ the one to talk about dying hard."

Spike shrugged, settling in his seat and before taking a look around. Jet had never been the tasteful one, and this coffee shop was no exception. Even though the scent of homemade bread and coffee twined pleasantly in the air, the chairs and tables were creaky and mismatched, the place bare and nearly empty, and the waitresses looked more like they belonged in a cocktail bar.

As if to emphasize his point, a woman in a pink uniform strode to their table, leaned against it, and cracked her gum, as if it were some international sign language for 'What do you want?'

Both men barely spared her glance.

Customers, she thought tiredly, and coughed. "Order?"

"We'll have pancakes, and bacon. Coffee. Make that black coffee," the bald man answered. The other guy had a lazy smile on his face, tracing circles on the plastic tablecloth with his thumb, and his eyes were fixed on her. Mismatched eyes.

It made her feel more than a little uncomfortable.

"I'd pass on the bacon, if I were you. Tough stuff."

"Yeah, but you aren't me," Jet commented.

She took the point, clucked her tongue once, twice, and disappeared into the swinging doors of the kitchen. Spike lifted an eyebrow, chuckling, and took out another cigarette.

"Gotten a bit cheeky."

"And you're still the same." Jet exhaled a plume of smoke. "Always stirring up a shit storm where everyone doesn't want it. I told you taking up with the syndicate again wasn't a good idea."

"It paid well, now and then. Both monetarily and emotionally. And by that, I mean dollars and satisfaction." He grinned lazily, knowing that he was infuriating the older man, and watched the flickering fire in those dark brown eyes. "Always a good combination."

"Huh. You're only doing this for Julia. It was never about the money."

The grin widened. "I told you, it's just for the satisfaction."

"Then you just took a blow right where it hurts, didn't it?" Jet nodded grimly. "Last night. Right in the damned gonads. You won't be getting any of your 'satisfaction' when Faye's right in the line of fire, and you realized that last night."

"She _isn't_ in the line of fire, Jet."

"She is. You go through with this and the best-case scenario? She dies. And you won't get any of your brainless satisfaction. Why? Because. You. Love. Her."

"Really now?" Spike grinned.

"Don't be an idiot!"

"It was a long time ago, Jet. We were… 'attracted'. Hardly what you'd call 'love'."

"It's easy to mistake love for passion."

"Most would say the opposite." Spike took a long deep drag from his cigarette and smiled up at the waitress, who had returned with their coffee. "But I rarely make mistakes, Jet."

"You made one when you took the job. When you enlisted in the Red Dragon. When you left Faye and me stranded on that godforsaken ship." Hardly, Jet added silently, a bunch of toss-'em-aside mistakes. "But you're about make another one. I'm begging you. Quit the syndicate."

Spike studied him. Closely. "You have five minutes, Jet," he finally said, his eyes gleaming in the dim lights. "Sell me. And sell me something good."

Jet stared at him for a moment, disbelief and disappointment etched into his face. But then his shoulders dropped, resigned, as he stood up, glared, and said, "Follow me." With that, he marched from the café in a huff, leaving several people gaping after him.

Spike sat there for a moment, smoking in silence and staring out the window. He could catch glimpses of watery sunlight in the distance, between the towering structures of the far-off cathedral.

Cathedrals. Hmph.

And, with a smile, he laid a twenty on the table, put out his cigarette, and followed Jet out the door. Five minutes, he promised himself. Or better yet, make it eight; Jet had slowed down since the Bebop. Then he was out of there.

And he was going after Faye.

* * *

tbc 


	3. Hooks, Lines, and Sinkers

**Disclaimer: **You know, it might have something to do with the fact that I don't _know_ how to play poker. Strip, or otherwise.  
**A/N: **I've got the next two chapters written out, but it's difficult to get on with editing them. In addition to a lot of schoolwork, tests, and more than enough projects, I'm leaving for the Philippines in a week's time, and I probably won't be writing as much in the two weeks after that. :( It's a weird little habit; I can't write on any other laptop except for mine, and I won't be bringing it along. So I'll try to finish as much as I can in the next week, edit it in the Philippines, and I'll post it there.

Oh, yes, and swunshine, I've never considered writing in Tagalog, Tagalog readers or none. It's just that I don't know _how_. ;) Thanks, again, to everyone who's reviewed!

EDIT: Thanks so much to Kendra Leuhr. I knew there was something wrong with Ed's character, and I couldn't figure out what until she told me. ;) I'd never had a talent for pinning down how exactly Ed talks. And acts. And basically everything about Ed. Thanks again, Kendra:trots off to voice lessons:

**Sixty Frames Per Second**  
**2:** **Going, Going, Gone**

Edward Wong Hau Pepelu Tivrusky was having the time of her life.

The Internet was a bit slower than was her liking, considering how connections were usually clogged on Sundays. But although her hacking program was much faster to use, she'd chosen to forgo the pleasures of easy hacking for the more complicated old-fashioned style: manually.

Or, to be more specific, guess-and-check.

And she was having a ball. Who said being a genius didn't have its perks?

She'd guessed Faye's password in a matter of seconds. And hacking into Jet and Spike's email accounts would be easy, too. She'd decided that when you stayed on a ship where your crew members wandered around aimlessly in their underwear, you got to know them pretty well, like it or not.

Thus leading to the knowledge of what they were most likely to choose for passwords.

"Show me your secrets, Mailbox Man!"

And with one click, she was in.

Much, much later, Ed was still clicking past emails that dated back to the twentieth century, trying vainly to keep her eyes open. The usual junk mail littered Faye's inbox, along with the odd birthday e-card (Ed counted at least fifty) and a few Christmas greetings and Valentines. Nothing really important, until…

"Oooooh! Faye-Faye has an email from Spike-person!"

Ein twitched in his sleep.

The email, she noted, was unopened. And it was, she also noted, blank. Disappointed, she scrolled back to the login page and typed in Jet's address.

She took considerably more time to type in the password; Jet-person was more complicated than the other two. After all, _he_ never moseyed around on the ship with only his boxers on; she'd only managed to catch a glimpse of them when he was showering.

And then she remembered.

_Alyssa._

"Six letters!" she proclaimed triumphantly, typing it in. "Jet-person's Mailbox Man, coming up!"

There were emails from Spike-person.

She marked those at once, and read them. In thirty minutes, she was done, and was scribbling it down on her notepad.

When she accessed Spike's email, her jaw dropped.

The man had, obviously, never cleaned out his mailbox.

_Viagra offers? _she wondered absently, listing them down on her notepad. She'd have to ask Faye-Faye what Viagra was later. And porn. And… oh, she wondered why Spike-person would want to have… er, breast implants. He didn't really seem like the type, she thought pensively.

When she finished, she chewed the tip of her pencil for a moment, and then wrote down the passwords as well.

_Faye-Faye: Redtail_

_Jet-person: Alyssa_

_Spike-person: Valentine_

Some people, she thought blandly as she hopped onto her bed and burrowed under the covers, could be _so_ predictable.

* * *

"I'm not so sure what you're trying to say here."

Spike huddled into his coat, trying not to shiver as he craned his neck to look over Jet's shoulder, past the trickle of everyday traffic and the colors of autumn in the city. The vivid red and orange hues of fallen leaves lay against the gray sidewalks and deadened black trees, assaulting his senses along with the blare of horns and the whisper of impatience.

"Jet? Are you even listening?"

The older man turned to look at him, and he looked… sad. Colorless among the blurs and hazes of the city. Out of place.

"Were you even listening, Spike? You wanted something good, and I'm giving it to you." He passed a hand over his eyes tiredly. "God knows why when I just want you gone. But if this is what it takes…" He gestured towards the dingy restaurant across the street, barely noticeable with its muted wooden shades and the handwritten sign.

Le Poisson.

Spike felt his gut clench. And he'd never been wrong before.

* * *

She spotted him as soon as she entered, a tall, elegantly-built figure folded into the worn plastic chair that the restaurant had deemed suitable as seating arrangements. He looked up when she approached, eyebrows knitted together in a frown above dark violet eyes.

"You left me at the casino opening last night."

It wasn't, by any means, much of a greeting. But Faye ignored that; she'd grown used to Jimmy's crude welcomes over the years. She dropped her handbag into the chair next to him and sat, reaching into a pocket for a cigarette. Speaking with him always made her nervous, but, as the bistro didn't exactly react well to smoking customers, she would have to be content with chewing it.

Jimmy watched her from under a fringe of ash-blonde hair, the frown deepening when she didn't answer. When she was at eye level, he reached and drew the cigarette away, flicking it into an empty ashtray. Funny how much that simple gesture seemed like a quiet threat.

His eyes were beautiful when he was this close.

"Something happened," she muttered as the way of explanation, shrugging the thought away. "I'll have a beer, thanks," she added to the waiter.

He bowed respectfully and left, knew better than to say more than was necessary in front of the blonde man with the strange eyes. He'd seen what had happened the last time another waiter had overstepped his boundaries, and it hadn't been good. Everyone's salary had been cut to pay for the damage repairs.

"Something happened," Jimmy repeated doubtfully when the waiter was out of earshot.

"It was… important."

"More so than a meeting with me?" He touched her cheek, and her gaze remained steady on his. "I find that hard to believe, Miss Valentine."

"I met a man."

He drew his hand away, studied her, and, in a moment, he understood.

"Who was he?"

She was silent. _But you already know._ "He was my old partner."

"Spike Spiegel."

It was more statement than question, so she chose to ignore it. He was quiet for another moment, looking at her. She avoided his gaze, watched the passing of the cars out on the street, heard the honks of their horns, and wished she was out there instead, breathing in the wind, and not in here, in this stupid restaurant that reeked of fish and bad memories.

Bad memories.

This damned city had too many of them, she thought bitterly. She had, after all, met Jimmy here.

I remember, she thought, her gaze traveling lightly over his immaculate coat, folded neatly over the back of his chair, and the chic tie, half undone, and his wrinkled white dress shirt. He wasn't any different from back then, other than the state of his dress. He'd been perfectly groomed that time. But the long frame, the harshly-angled face, the eyes. Violet eyes.

The very same person she'd first seen in Le Poisson.

She'd picked him out of the crowd. He attracted her. Truth be told, he attracted all women, and, on the rare occasion, men too, but he'd paid more attention to her than was usual. He'd smiled at her, winked, and when he'd paid the bill and left, she'd found herself following him.

It was how she'd gotten into such a mess in the first place: her own stupidity, a one night stand, and enough drinks to loosen her tongue about… well, everything.

And she couldn't have chosen a worse man to have spilled it to, Faye thought sullenly.

A beer slid in front of her peripheral vision, startling her out of her thoughts, and she focused on it, mouthed a thanks to the waiter who smiled and jogged away. Taking hold of it, she took a deep gulp, felt the alcohol warm her stomach, and her mood improved slightly.

But not nearly enough, especially when Jimmy leaned forward and met her eyes.

"Just because Spike Spiegel's back was no reason to cancel on me."

"He surprised me," she replied evenly.

She didn't say the rest; she didn't need to. Jimmy knew it, and so did she: she would never cancel on him in the long run, Spike or no Spike. Ghosts or no ghosts. There was still the silent, unspoken promise that both of them knew about, but didn't discuss.

_I'll stay with you._

He was silent, watching her.

_As long as you stay with me._

Jimmy never used her for sex, but she was still his 'toy', something he played around with when he got bored. Mind games, insults. They hurt, but in turn… he'd offered something she'd never had before.

_I'll stay with you._

And she'd taken it without comment. It had been something the Bebop had never been able to give her.

Something Spike had never been able to give her.

She stretched her head back, leaned it against the back of the booth and closed her eyes, suddenly tired. Somewhere, far off in the distance, she heard Jimmy speak.

"I want to see this Spike Spiegel." He reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, smiling gently when she shivered at the contact. "There's a party that I would like you to attend on Saturday evening. Formal attire. Nothing extremely fancy, just a little wine and a little mingling. Take this… Spike… as your date."

So that was it. The price she had to pay for last night. Bring Spike Spiegel to a damned party, and see how she could handle it. Not very well, she supposed, and opened her eyes when his chair scraped against the floor. Jimmy had already taken his coat and was sliding into it, and she watched from her seat with blurry eyes as he smiled at her.

"I'm sorry I have to cut our conference short. I have to go. I have an important meeting to get to."

He held out a hand, and she grasped it for a moment before letting go. And, for a moment, they looked so ordinary that it made her heart ache; just normal people on a normal date, and a proper handshake that meant strict business and nothing more.

Although, she knew, it was as far from the truth than it would ever be.

He kissed her then. And everything shifted, changed, hung in a precarious balance that didn't know which way to tip. A slight pass of his lips over hers, and she tasted the ghost of desire, lingering on the tip of her tongue, barely there, a small spark of red. When he drew away, he smiled for the briefest second.

And then he was gone.

* * *

_Jimmy._

Faye ran a hand over her head, slumped back in her seat, and breathed a silent sigh of relief. It was over. She could leave the matter well enough alone. One party with Spike… so what? He'd probably moved on to Jupiter by now, and the possibility that he'd be back was as remote as Ein winning a game of poker against her.

She toyed absent-mindedly with her lighter, staring into the empty chair Jimmy had been occupying.

But, hell, now that she'd seen him, could she let it go as simply as that?

She sighed, rested her forehead against the palm of her hand. Easy come, easy go, she thought grimly. Goddammit, Spike, I want you to go, so what the hell are you doing here?

Unable to resist any longer, she lit her cigarette and took a deep pull.

She thought again of Jet. He'd left her well alone, high and dry, after Spike had run off, on Earth while he jetted off to Mars or some other remote place in search of Alyssa. Selfish bastard. And the fact that he lied to her made her burn with anger and a sense of deep hurt.

He'd been her father, yet she didn't know where he was now. Probably still trawling around in space, looking for that woman.

Years on the Bebop, she thought bitterly, and she had nothing to show for it but a kid and a dog.

Not quite alone, not quite enough.

She rubbed at her eyes and fished in her pockets for some cash, came up with a crumpled fifty, and tossed it onto the table. She was out of here. All she needed to do was attend the party with a phony Spike Spiegel and Jimmy would never bring up the subject again.

All she had to do was find someone like him.

She reached for her handbag. When her fingers curled around the strap, she felt something tug her gaze upward, through the window. And, when it connected, she felt the familiar shock of awareness.

Because there, across the street, was Jet Black, his face crinkled into a sullen, worried expression, overshadowed by age. Spike Spiegel stood next to him, his mismatched eyes on hers, his hands stuffed into his pockets, and the same, slightly shell-shocked look on his face that he'd had back in the casino.

_There'd never be anyone like him._

Not even close. And she knew it.

When she could breathe again, she acted.

Faye Valentine bolted out the door and took off into the darkening night.

* * *

tbc 


	4. Alyssa

**Disclaimer: **Idon'townCowboyBeboporanyofitscharacters.  
**A/N: **Long hiatus there. :blush: But I'm back. And, as a peace offering, I went over the chapters, corrected any mistakes, revised, re-revised, etc. So... forgive me?

**Sixty Frames Per Second  
3: Alyssa**

I never really expected it, you know?

We were partners. Practically siblings. We ate each other's food, drank each other's booze, and wore each other's clothes. Half of the time we spent on the Bebop, we spent with each other, plotting ways to get more money, and ending up drunk most of the time. We were comfortable around each other, swore at each other, fought, bit, and kicked each other until we were both raw and red. And then we'd laugh it off and get another bottle of wine.

We never even really thought about one another… you know. That way. I was busy chasing my ghosts, and he was busy chasing his. So why bother?

Then I ruined it all.

Maybe it was that damned smile. Did I mention that it was truly gorgeous? Dangerous, unrefined, and with just a hint of steel. Or all that green hair, or even those long arms I'd always curl up in to stay warm when we were in some half-collapsed igloo in the Antarctica. Or even those stupid eyes, brown, mismatched, and almost always empty.

Whatever it was, I ruined it. And he didn't understand. We started having serious fights, where we'd be going at it from the break of dawn to midnight unless Jet wailed in between us with a machine gun. Which he did. Often. And we just didn't work anymore. Not like the way it was before.

Not when I was so uncomfortable around him.

And then… it happened. Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse. One night on the coast, where we'd spent most of the day hauling pirated spare parts from an offshore shack to the Bebop. One sweaty, dirty night, where we got into another fight… and ended up in bed with each other.

We snapped back together the wrong way around. And guess what? It worked, and we were partners again. Partners with benefits. But it was only when he left that I realized how much damage I'd done.

I'd fallen in love with him.

And both of us… we'd just put it down to lust.

Wasn't that the biggest problem?

* * *

"It bit you."

Hearing it like that stung his pride in ways that he'd never imagined. Her lips never moved from that same infuriating grin it was currently wrapped around, but the amused barb just seemed to slide out of her wordlessly and completed the sentence:

'_It bit you. You complete moron.'_

A silent insult left him with no good comeback, so Spike just winced as he stuck another bandage on the bite wound, partly from pain, partly from the fact that he didn't know whether or not Ein had gotten his shots.

Goddammit, everything was going wrong.

Alyssa watched him calmly over the bar, pleased with his pained expression. She'd always had some fun at his expense, which was why she probably liked his visits to her bar so much: entertainment value, at Spike Spiegel's utter mortification.

It made him wince again.

"You know, things would just be better if you left Faye alone."

"So Jet says," he muttered, slumping back in his seat and lighting his third cigarette in the past hour. "Although in not so many words. He told me to quit the syndicate."

The music was going to his head, slow smooth jazz that made him sleepy after a long day of trailing Faye all over creation (after the catastrophe at the fish restaurant) and getting bitten by Ein, who, unexpectedly, had been guarding her apartment door.

Hence the 'wrong' part.

"He's right, you know."

"He wants me to _quit the syndicate_, Alyssa." He put a ladle of emphasis on the phrase.

"Oh, I know you've got your reasons. Julia, and all that." Alyssa leaned forward and, resting her elbows on the counter, tapped his nose once, twice. "S'far I've kept my mouth shut, boy, but Jet hasn't, so I'm saying this now: all those reasons? That stuff about Julia? That's bullshit."

He made a strangled noise of betrayal somewhere in his throat, but a dark eyebrow winged, silencing him. "You'd better start getting it through that thick head of yours, Spike-o. Julia's dead." She turned back to the bar, wiped it down. "And when someone's dead, it's not worth staying with a syndicate, ruining your life like this, just for her. Want more whiskey?"

"Jesus, Alyssa," he said, hoarsely. "Didn't anyone ever teach you to respect the dead?"

"I respect 'em fair enough." She shrugged, nonchalantly, and took his empty glass. "But if the world stopped turning for a moment of prayer whenever someone dies, I reckon it wouldn't ever start again."

"Julia's worth everything I'm doing."

The eyebrow lifted again, more prominently. "Ah, but you've gotta start asking yourself: is she worth Faye's life? You know they'll send you after her. She's got a bounty on her head, after all."

"How much?"

Her eyes widened mockingly at him, in a sort of I-can't-believe-you-just-asked-that way. "Five million yen, cowboy. Give or take a few."

"Well, shit." She waited, patiently, toying with the damp towel she'd used to clean the bar. She knew she was getting him angry, by that brooding, painful look on his face. Which may or may not have been due to the dog bite, but whatever. Then he looked up, scowling darkly. "They'd just send other bounty hunters after her when I quit."

"You can just look after her. Por favor."

"Hell, no. I could barely handle Tabitha on my own; you think I can handle a full-grown woman?"

"… You're seriously comparing your cat to Faye?"

"Not really. Faye's not a purring, just-give-me-milk-and-I'm-happy animal. An animal, sure, but more difficult. A cat wants milk where she wants dough, and whereas I can count on my cat for a little TLC at the end of the day, I'll be fighting and kicking with her for hours." He brooded. "Not that I want any TLC from that idiot woman, mind you."

Alyssa smiled. Goddamn, he was adorable when he was drunk and moody. And she was pissing him off. Maybe Jet would finally be happy about something she'd done for once, she thought, ruefully, reaching for another bottle of whisky and popping it open.

Just maybe.

"Faye needs you, Spike. More than the syndicate does. More than Julia does." She took a sip straight from the bottle and poured him some more. Nudge, she reminded herself, and nudge gently.

And perhaps get him even more pissed and drunk in the process.

"She can take care of herself," Spike muttered.

"Not anymore."

It was the truth after all; every single time that Faye had spent in her bar had been with a glass of tequila that she'd seemed content to stare at, pay for, and leave untouched. Misery, pure and raw as a fresh wound, made you weak.

And misery, Alyssa sighed as she glanced at Spike's surly features, loves company.

'If only they'd stop dancing the mamba around each other, they'd be living happily ever after.'

"Tell me, 'Lyssa." Spike peered up at her with mismatched brown eyes, dark, heavy, and dulled with alcohol. The kind of look that always bothered her because they were so… _vacant_. "Does Faye love Jimmy?"

"Call it infatuation. Obsession, if you will." She shrugged. "Look at it this way: if you kill Jimmy, she'll be after you with a gun and a few tanks… and with your kind of arsenal, I've no doubt who'd win." Her eyes found his, softened. "That's what Jet's worried about. You might kill her, Spike."

"I'll take that as a compliment." His eyebrows knitted together. "They're that close."

"Closer."

"Oh. Fine. Thanks." He stood up, suddenly, unexpectedly, so that she started, stared, as he fished a crumpled dollar from an inside pocket, handed it to her with a small, rather savage smile. He was drunk, and he was angry, and she had no idea why.

But she knew it would be wrong to press now. So she let it lie. Just for now.

"Thanks, Alyssa." The tone was sincere as he reached over the bar to brush a hand over her hair, almost tenderly. But he was still mad, and she could see it in his eyes, the tensed frame of his shoulders. "I appreciate it. But I'm not quitting the syndicate until I'm finished with this Jimmy fellow. If not for Julia, it'll be for Faye."

"If you _did_ quit…"

He put a hand over hers. "I'm sorry." This time, it was soft, sad, and completely hypocritical. And it disappointed her. "But I'm not going to stop until Jimmy's dead. Until Faye's free."

And then he was gone.

And, as Alyssa watched the swinging doors of the empty bar, she thought she understood. Only a little. Not quite enough, she decided tiredly, and returned to her chores. But it would do. Just for now.

* * *

tbc 


End file.
